A Piece Of Prose That Is Poetry Or Vice Versa

[theirishsea]

they tell me I don't write poetry
just waves-of-the-wand prose
but the words, words, words
don't sing, strum guitar
blow sax as wide and circular as the moon
and they---
yes, you want to know who they are
don't be vague
don't assume you can say something without foundation
they are the advocates of puffery
they are the wolves that inhabit bitter winter nights
and turn to literature to claw and shred and paste
that inhabit history like a scripture
saying Andrew Marvell did this, Donne done that
and you buddy boy are writing mixed metaphors
not plying meter
not ratcheting half-rhymes
not writing about your mother's beet soup
or you father's death in hospital
many, many, many years ago
when the world was healing from the Second World War
and we believed in our institutions
and we thought we could advance though there were commies
in Hollywood and J Edgar Hoover had a thing for women's dresses
as it was rumored and verified decades later
those days we believed in Divine Purpose
or Art for Art's sake
and the ramblings of a poet were ordered, hyphenated
imaged in a precise irony or howl
one or the other and everybody was everybody
few exotic identities and little covens
that brewed poetry in a hot, sticky alphabet soup
everything was hunky-dory and dressed in a pressed shirt and tie
except for the marginalia of Gregory Corso or the toilet-paper
like scrolls of Jack Kerouac who wrote as he drove
but you 21st century poetaster, you who am I
I know they'd point out you switched I to you
well, you or I are of two minds and let the parachute rip
the words float slowly
even though they jumped quickly
and you are watching the tiny tops of the trees get bigger
and you skywrite your emotions
which are O's of wonder striated
with strands of sadness
it is a wreath tossed out of your mouth
you hope to make a ringer
win a stuffed poetry prize
something to give your children
so they have a curio for their mantelpiece
but you who am I
really have little hope as I descend into old age
and lower
sensing my impact with the ground
on some cold or hot otherwise uneventful day
and the prize was never awarded
and who cares anyway
immortality was a religious thing
to deny death, absurdity, the night
oh yes, once we believed in our gods
or Divine Persons but poetry was analyzed
and though smarties are better than dummies
you can't rejoice in proving a negative
and so, as the critics conclude,
your prose has come back to itself
closed the circle of scribbling
without a conclusion
and few say they learned anything
or felt any analogous emotion
like looking on a new baby
or peering into your love's eyes
having the invisible hands of sight intertwine
press so gently
or--let's jar this--back to the analogy--
no one even feels like you do in an empty house
convicts loose in the neighborhood
thugs with guns
and then you hear a creak on the stairs
and you stare into the dark just beyond
your circle of light
no, no one feels even that
or disgust
a cat's vomit on the floor
a ball of hair coated with....
no, not even that, thank God for the absent Muse
but maybe the critics and all readers not you
yawn
and like one who yawns and closes their mouth eventually
and here, here, they close your poem
which they say is prose
they close it
bang it shut
no, close it softly
you never hear anyone in the act of reading your writing
you are alone with yourself
your words
mirrors that catch your flat image
that does everything in reverse
an illusory allusion to your own reality
you are a left-handed pitcher in your mirror world
you are a hero in your poem
you say something important, relatable
yes and no

[revolutionR]

One day in San Francisco, I saw Corso walk into a famous book store on Polk street
and make a scene, it seemed that he owed money to the store owner, I don't know
if he was drunk, but if was quite a display, anyway I guess you still write on that
"critic" site owned by that tyrant, and his pack of critics, anyway thanks for writing.

[justwalt]

yesssssir... I mean nooossir... I doonn't know sir, but
I did not forget to bring two parachutes...
you brought the plane, right?

nice one sailer

peace sign

W

[creativesoul]

Wow ,,, I was sitting here and I thought
Yeah check out this poem..
I went on a journey with you there
Kind. Plots and shapes- :history in skin

Poetry is liberation
It's dreamy letters compose the whole
A little bit at a time
Nice
Really full!

[mnaz]

And yet, can you believe it, some people still insist it has to be one or the other.. You said it so much better than I could have..

[theirishsea]

Thanks mnaz, Creative soul, just walt, revolution for your comments. I do read them and I do read other people's work too. Lately with all the political events I've been totally uninspired to do anything more than dip my toe into poetry. I will try to break out of that stupor today.